


Under the blue bottle

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Paris(obviously), the jazz cafe, where one barman plays jazz very good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:06:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is walking home, with lots of thoughts in his head, while the cold wind is cathcing him and the wishes of а nice hot cup of tea lead the Revolutionary to the shady, undeground world of jazz.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>P.S. dear pineapplePaul, do you speak Russian?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the blue bottle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> To my beloved Jehan)
> 
>  
> 
> "Under the blue bottle" is a real cafe in Lwiw, Ukraine. I was there and I literally felt myself as Enjolras. Also Grantaire is looking like the red haired guy from this awesome video -->http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHgLe9_Vy6E&feature=c4-overview&list=UUavTVjugW1OejDAq0aDzdMw 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, the song, which Les amis are singing, is from the Disney movie "Aristocats": Everybody wants to be a cat)

Some people say that music is a language of soul, of inspiration or maybe imagination. It is believed that it can help when we feel depressed, even changes our mood. Is true? I can’t say. When I am walking from the University I need my head clean, because thought have to be sorted. Our brain is like hard driver, where important to put only important information as BBC’s new Sherlock Holmes says. And I agree with him. 

 

Music is good. Maybe somewhere, but not in my headphones and inside of my head.

 

Judging music, a blond student is almost running to the nearest Metro station. The nasty, already cold wind bites his collarbone and bare skin of his hands. In the morning it has been still summer’s warm Sun, but in the evening the Autumn is reminding not that gently that it is time to forget about Summer. 

 

How on Earth can Prouvaire like Autumn? With its coldness, grey sky and bloody cold!! 

 

Shaking dreadfully in his dark red t-shirt, Enjolras wishes for a nice cup of tea. He is even ready to listen Combeferre’s remarks on how not healthy his lifestyle is. And then maybe he is going to catch a cold and Joly will be mad at him. It is nothing in comparing how Enjolras is already angry at himself right now. He tried to organize a meeting with one of his Politics Professor, but it has been canceled. Another gust of wind makes Enjolras rolling his eyes and walking even quicker through the crowd of people. 

 

In his rather miserable mood, regretting that he hasn’t finished his essay in the University, Enjolras suddenly hears a strange bouquet of sounds. And a wave of warmth, mixed with a pleasant hint of strong tea. He stops, almost knocking down an old man. Then, trusting his nose and ears he walks blindly, thinking that a nice cup of tea or maybe coffee won’t make his current situation even worse.

 

Noses and ears are rarely wrong. Amber eyes catch a dirty little sign “Under the blue bottle” and doubts start appearing in his logical mind. But cold hands and the lack of keys from his home (Ferre and Courfeyrac are coming back in two hours) win. He carefully pushes the door and looks inside; then makes a step.

 

Aaaand his logical mind protest immediately. The atmosphere of the place is like in old-fashioned movies, where only those who belong to this place can visit it. But in the room there are lots of small tables, a great variety of smells and audience. Also there is a small stage. 

 

The dim lights catch Enjolras’s blond hair and he is now illuminating, like a candle in the attic. He unconsciously makes a step back to the door, but the sound of that same door being harshly shut, stops him. From the corners start appearing figures of men or creatures, made of cigarette smoke and strange sounds of underground music. Enjolras licks his lower lip, analyzing the situation, while his conscience blames him for being such a fool. And then a heavy hand squeezed his shoulder. 

 

“Welcome, Monsieur!!” the hoarse, but cheerful voice rumbles near Enjolras’s left ear. “Welcome, to the “Under the blue bottle”!!”

 

The Journalist student turns jerkily and stares at the stranger. His features are looking friendly actually. The sigh of relief escapes Enjorlas’s pale lips. 

 

“Are you alright? God, you ‘re freezing!” two men grab Enjolras’s hands and drag him to the bar, while people around them drink and talking loudly. “You don’t come here for peace and quiet, eh?”

 

Enjolras tries to catch everything what is happening around him and tries to recognize faces of the musicians, because obviously he has seen many of them.

 

“Have a drink!” a big glass of something, which Enjolras can’t identify, ends up in his right hand.

 

“Take a chair!” Another hands pull him down.

 

“Get off!! Stop this!!” the students tries really hard to run away from this mad dark place, but he just can’t. Smoke, different lights and shades, sounds of piano and contrabass…

 

“Let him go.”

 

Enjolras’s head jerkily turns to see who is speaking, because his words cause a reaction: a crazy move around Enjolras has stopped. But he can’t see who it has been.

 

“He has no business with us, fighting for Human Rights…” Enjolras screws his eyes and then with force pulls himself back as he finally finds out who is speaking. “Living in the first class, having Daddy to pay…”

 

It is most definitely the game of lights, because the barman can’t have such burning red hair. His face is hidden by the black hat. Only his unshaved chin and a mocking smile are visible, with a piercing on a bottom lip. 

 

“Welcome to the real world, Revolutionary.” He slowly takes a bottle and pours some wine in a glass. His voice is hoarse, like if he is ill. A white shirt with the rolled sleeves and a white vest fitting good his black hat. “where we getting old, fighting to get some food, havin’ a jazzy mood.”

 

Enjolras opens his mouth to answer, but he has been hushed by the great amount of jazz musicians. One of them is a blond kid and Enjolras can swear he has seen before that bushy blond hair and lively eyes. 

 

Then without warning they start singing and repeating words over and over again, while the barman tapping on the table.

 

“Everybody, everybody wants to be a French, everybody wants to play some jazz…”

 

And in this particular moment Enjolras with his revolutionary heart and braveness in his soul, just wants to wake up in his bed or even in his class, anywhere, but not in this terrible place of dark jazz singers. 

 

The barman slowly picks up his head and his incredibly cold blue eyes meet Enjolras’s. In that second, when Enjolras tries to figure out why this gaze is actually familiar, in that second when his heart skips a beat, they start singing loudly.

 

“Everybody wants to be a French,  
because a French’s the only men  
who knows where it's at.”

 

The barman suddenly jumps over the bar graciously, like if he has been doing that for every customer and joins the song.

 

“Everybody's pickin' up on that feline beat,  
'cause everything else is obsolete.  
Now a square with a horn,  
can make you wish you weren't born…”

 

A blondy kid rolls around Enjolras’s chair, making his head spinning. When the student opens his eyes, he sees that the barman in the white shirt is now playing the piano, while saxophone, contrabass and violin accompany him.

 

“Ever'time he plays;  
and with a square in the act,  
he can set music back  
to the caveman days.”

 

But deeper then thoughts of home and waking up, Enjolras is ashamed to admit that this impossible, strangely mad atmosphere is, in fact, amazing. The lights, the smells, the colors and those eyes together with that hoarse voice, singing.

 

“I've heard some corny birds who tried to sing,  
but a French’s the only men,  
who knows how to swing.” 

 

The thin fingers run across the keyboard so easily, like they don’t know anything else. The dim light catches the thin figure of the barman and his dark hair has become red again. That even works for him.

 

The blond kid, a bald Afro-American and a tall man sing together with the barman. 

 

“Who wants to dig  
a long-haired gig  
or stuff like that?  
When everybody wants to be a play some jazz.”

 

The audience of the “Under the blue bottle” finally starts singing all together, making a colossal cacophony. 

 

“A square with that horn,  
makes you wish you weren't born,  
ever'time he plays;”

 

The barman, playing with his left hand, reaches for a glass of beer, literally from nowhere.

 

“And with a square in the act,  
he's gonna set this music back  
to the Stone Age days.  
Everybody wants to be a French,  
because a French’s the only men  
who knows where it's at;  
while playin' jazz you always has a Welcome mat”

 

A blondy kid is playing saxophone and a girl with dark hair is singing so good, while the barman jumps from the chair in front of the piano and starts dancing together with a bald Afro-American.

 

“Cause everybody digs a swingin' French.  
Everybody digs a swingin' jazz”

 

Enjolras hasn’t quite realized how the barman has materialized so quickly in front of him. His figure freezes in a bow, when the whole café applauds loudly with cheers. His face is hiding by the hat again, but then again, he slowly looks in Enjolras eyes, his mocking smile never leaving his lips, so close to the pale face of Enjolras, whispering him:

“Tea?”

 

Next morning Enjolras wakes up so jerkily, breathing so heavily. Near him are sitting Combeferre and Courfeyrac with worrying faces. The Journalist tries to ask something, but then his eyes catch a blue bottle of wine, lying under his working desk. His friends just shrug, saying that he has fever, because he was under the heavy rain for two hours yesterday.


End file.
